by Bruce Blake
Smoke.
Not fairies floating by his nose, but smoke. And the smell wasn’t in his thoughts, nor the light brought to comfort him. It was here to capture him.
“Here,” the man at the foot of Graymon’s tree grunted.
Startled, Graymon looked down from his perch into rheumy eyes staring up from a decayed face. He screamed and pulled away, his foot slipping on a patch of moss, but he hooked his arm around the limb, keeping himself from falling all the way to the ground. He panted and squirmed, feet searching frantically for the limb he knew to be somewhere below, but his energy waned. All the running and hiding, fear and stress and cold became too much for him. He yelped as his hold slipped and he lurched down a couple of inches.
“Come down, boy,” the dead thing growled.
Graymon looked over his shoulder and saw the man holding the torch high above his head, flames licking at the soles of his damp boots. The boy hooked his other arm over the branch and kicked his feet at the flames, but doing so made him lose his grip. He fell off the branch, scraping his wrists on the rough bark. His hip found the limb he’d been searching for with his feet, spinning him in the air as he bounced off it. He struck the ground hard.
The crack of his arm breaking beneath him sounded loud in his ears, a sound he wouldn’t soon forget, but the pain was mercifully brief as consciousness fled him like dust blowing before a brisk wind.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
She took two steps toward them dragging her sword at her side, the tip scraping the floor. Her hips swayed slightly when she moved, just the way Khirro remembered. Just the way they had in his dreams every night since he saw her die.
“Elyea? Is it really you?”
His hands throbbed. Blood rushed through his limbs.
How can this be?
Athryn remained statue-like beside him. She advanced another step; a board creaked under her foot, confirming she was solid, real. In the dim light, Khirro saw this woman’s hair was cut short and ragged, not long and flowing like Elyea’s.
Maybe it’s not her.
But her height, the shape of her body, the sound of her voice, all these things seemed like his lost love.
Khirro’s gut churned. She died in his arms, no doubt about that, but magic lurked in Lakesh, and especially in the Necromancer’s underground keep. Maybe something in the cursed land brought her back, or someone. The thought sickened him.
We left her behind.
They’d collected wood and built a pyre, lit the flames and released her soul to the Gods. If this was really Elyea, then some powerful magic was at work, and Khirro only knew one way to find out if this was her or a trick.
He slid forward a step, but Athryn grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“Who are you?” Athryn asked in a commanding tone.
A moment of silence passed as they both held their breath, not sure if they should hope for the worst or the best; Khirro didn’t even know which was which. Finally, the silhouette spoke again.
“It is I, Elyea.”
***
“Who are you?”
This one is called Athryn. The woman in black didn’t ask me to kill him, but he’s been with the man called Khirro in many of my visions, and he’s with him now. That’s enough to doom him. But do I surprise them now and take their lives with my sword? I’d enjoy watching their blood drain from them like I did so many other men in this place a day ago. No. That’s good enough for others, perhaps good enough for the magician, but I want to feel the man’s life leave him, not merely watch it.
“It is I, Elyea,” I say and watch them both go tense. They have trouble believing I’m their lost little whore, and they are right to. It’s not really who I am, but who I’ll pretend to be to exact my revenge.
The man called Khirro looks like he might drop his sword at my words, then run behind me and sniff my ass like a homeless dog. The blade droops in his bandaged hands. Concern springs to my chest at the sight of the cloth wrapping both of his palms, catching me off guard. I push it away. Why should I be concerned for the man I’m about to kill? Injured hands will soon be the least of his concerns.
“How do you come to be here, Elyea?” the magician asks.
I move toward them, the floor tacky beneath my feet, making me smile. I let them think the smile is for them, not for the memory and thrill of the blood I’ve spilled.
“It doesn’t matter how, what matters is I’m here.”
Khirro moves a step toward me, breaking away from Athryn’s protesting grip. Fifteen feet separate us and I see his features despite the darkened room. The curve of his cheek, the shape of his nose, everything is familiar about him, not just from my dreams and visions. My heart begins to ache and I swallow hard, attempting to quash the unwanted reaction.
This man raped me, killed my friends. Killed me.
“Elyea, I’m sorry,” he says, startling me. Can he hear my thoughts? “If I thought there were any chance you lived, we never would have left.”
He can’t. He’s trying to save himself, begging like they all do. It won’t help him, though I wouldn’t mind hearing him beg and plead. Yes, begging would be good.
“You couldn’t know,” I say keeping my voice sweet and gentle. It’s difficult.
We close the distance between us, coming close enough either of us could reach out and touch the other. Neither of us do, not yet. I see the desire on his face, the yearning gleam in his eyes, but he’s careful, too. A man as evil as he didn’t live this long being reckless. I’ll have to take the lead, so I grit my teeth to bite back my disgust and reach out with my left hand, stroke his cheek with my fingers. A feeling runs down my arm leaving goose flesh in its wake. He flinches at my touch.
“Khirro,” the magician says and I cast a look at him over Khirro’s shoulder, but not one carrying a threat; I can’t warn him away, not when I’m so close. It doesn’t matter, though, the man called Khirro doesn’t take his eyes from mine.
“I’ve missed you,” I say looking into his eyes. They gleam and glisten in the red glow of his sword, flickering as though alight with fire.
“And I’ve missed you.” He moves closer until a few inches separate our faces. “I dream of you every night.”
“And I of you.”
I feel his breath on my face and suppress a shudder, but I can’t do anything about the tingling that springs to life at the bottom of my abdomen. I attempt to ignore it, but it becomes more insistent when his lips brush mine. He kisses me gently. I kiss him back, then our lips press together more firmly. My breath shortens, my body burns. This doesn’t feel like the other men whose souls I ripped out of their bodies. I close my eyes and see him doing things I haven’t seen him doing in my dreams: stroking my bare thigh, gently biting my neck, cupping my breast. I imagine him pressing his body into mine and my eyes snap open.
He killed me.
Latent anger blossoms in my chest, fills my lungs. He tries to end the kiss and pull away, but I hold him close, making him believe I desire him.
Do I?
Making him believe I want him.
Do I?
Not letting him know I mean to kill him.
Do I?
I do.
With our lips joined almost as one mouth, I inhale deeply, exhilaration filling me as I feel the first piece of his soul find its way into me.
***
“I dream of you every night,” Khirro said. He didn’t doubt that Elyea stood before him. Her hair was different, chopped short, but the rest was her.
“And I of you.”
He took a shuddering breath and leaned closer. Night after night he wished to have her back, to have the opportunity to tell her how he felt, show her in a way he never did before. He told her of his love only in the moment of her death, and he’d carried the fact with him like a rock in his heart ever since.
I won’t miss the opportunity again.
Their lips touched, lightly at first, but passion overwhelmed him. He knew this was neither th
e time nor place, but he couldn’t help himself. He kissed her deeply, felt her body against his. Love swelled through him, forcing weariness out of his limbs and pain from his hands. He’d have kissed her forever, dying happily of old age in her embrace, but the words he heard ended his thoughts.
He killed me.
He heard them spoken by her voice as though she’d whispered them directly into his ear, but he knew the words didn’t come from her lips because his lips sealed them closed. Khirro tried to pull away and end the kiss but she held him close, eager for more. He indulged her, pushing aside the voice raising a warning in his head. Her lips felt so good on his, until something tore loose inside him.
His body stiffened. Pain in his chest, a feeling like part of his lung separated, leaving behind a burning trail up his throat and out through his mouth. He dropped the Mourning Sword and pressed his hands against Elyea’s shoulders to push her away, the pain in his fingers excruciating, but she wouldn’t release him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Athryn beside them, trying to separate them, but Elyea sent him stumbling away with a stiff shove.
The pain grew. He felt his rib cage, his entire torso, compressed, squeezing his innards, leaving them no choice but to escape through his mouth. He punched at Elyea, but she pinned his arms at his side.
Why is she doing this?
Athryn came at her again. This time, she connected a foot to his midsection; Khirro heard his ribs crack and he went down in a heap. Khirro continued to struggle but strength drained from his limbs. He twitched. Sweat formed on his brow, running down his cheeks. The room grew hot.
Khirro didn’t see the flames engulf his head, but he felt them, hot to the touch. They didn’t burn him, they energized him. The same wasn’t true for Elyea. She released him and stumbled back, her face twisted with rage.
***
His life fills me.
He struggles but he’s no match for me. Neither is the magician. I’m disappointed it’s so easy, I expected more of a fight from a man with such evil flowing through his veins. As his soul enters me, seeping into every crevasse of my body, I see all the things he did to me all over again: the torture, the pain, the anguish. No fantasy of bare flesh and ecstasy this time, that will come when my work’s done and the woman in black comes to reward me.
I look into his eyes as his life leaves him, satisfying myself with the fact he’ll soon be dead. His eyes are wide and scared, like the others, but the draining is taking longer. He has great fight in him, though it will do him no good.
Then his eyes change.
The blaze that burned in them-the reflection of his glowing sword-returns. But he no longer holds the sword, it lays on the floor at our feet. The flame flickers and brightens, like tinder catching in a brisk wind, until his eyes blaze and I feel heat on my face. I breathe deeper but the heat intensifies, searing my flesh until I have to pull away or risk being burned. His soul snakes out of my chest leaving an emptiness begging to be filled again.
I step back, angered at being thwarted and surprised at what I gaze upon. Flame engulfs his head, twisting and moving. It is the burning mask of a tyger he wears, its flaming lips pulled back, revealing blazing teeth. The tyger looks as though it would gladly kill me, but the wearer-his face visible through the flames-looks scared and confused.
The magician makes his way to his feet and moves to the man called Khirro’s side; even he doesn’t get too close to the fiery mask. I raise my sword, ready to defend or attack. I’ll see their lives drain out onto the floor, then. That’s how it will be.
Athryn pulls him away and the flames fade from Khirro’s head. He isn’t burned, his hair isn’t singed, no smoke smolders on him. Curious. What did the woman in black forget to tell me?
“Elyea.” His breath comes in pants, a result of the flames or my attempt on his life, perhaps both. “Why?”
“I’m not Elyea,” I say with a smile and a laugh. I thought I was only taking his life, I didn’t realize I’d get to crush his emotions first. “I am Shariel, the executioner. Your executioner.”
***
Yellow and orange swirled before Khirro’s eyes, coloring the room around him. Elyea stumbled away, hatred and surprise etched equally in her expression. He drew deep breaths, struggling to fill his deflated lungs as Athryn pulled him back, away from her raised sword. The flames dwindled before his eyes, leaving him momentarily blind in the darkness. Only his companion’s grip on his arm kept him from sagging to the floor.
“Elyea,” he gasped. “Why?”
“I’m not Elyea,” she said in a voice not entirely her own. It sounded like another mouth spoke in unison with hers. “I am Shariel, the executioner. Your executioner.”
Khirro shuddered and struggled to keep his knees from buckling. On the floor between them the Mourning Sword pulsed and glowed, the light of the red runes intensifying. Dread collected in the pit of Khirro’s stomach.
“Who sent you, Shariel?” Athryn demanded. “What do you want?”
The woman laughed and the second voice laughed along with her.
“I come to claim the life of the man called Khirro, as is my right.” She looked directly at Khirro. “You will pay for the things you did to me.”
“What I did to you?” Khirro’s mind raced. What does she mean? “I don’t know you, Shariel.”
The woman’s expression changed, softened for a second, but quickly turned back to anger.
“You will pay for what you did to Elyea.”
“But I loved Elyea.”
She stalked toward them and they circled away. Khirro glanced at the Mourning Sword, wondering if he dared make a grab for it. He didn’t want to fight this woman, whether she was Elyea or merely someone who looked like her.
Or maybe she’s something else.
“Your love for Elyea was another of your ways to torture her,” the voices said.
“No. I loved her. I’d never have hurt her.”
“It’s true,” Athryn added. “We all loved you. Khirro most of all.”
He turned his head and nodded almost imperceptibly. Khirro understood immediately.
“I loved you, like I’ve loved no other,” he said following the magician’s lead.
“You didn’t love me… her.” Each voice ended the sentence with a different word. The woman shook her head and corrected herself. “You didn’t love her.” The tip of her blade flickered and they jumped back.
“I loved you. I still do.”
The woman had heard enough. Her lips pulled into a scowl and she lunged. Athryn blocked her blow with a loud clang of steel on steel and Khirro took the opportunity. He somersaulted across the floor and grabbed the hilt of the Mourning Sword, coming to a halt on his feet as the woman swiped at his chest. The sword tip scraped across his leather.
“You will pay for the things you did to her,” she shouted, swinging her sword again, first at Khirro, then Athryn.
She moved with incredible speed, her blade flickering back and forth between them fast enough they barely had time to defend themselves and recover in time to parry or dodge again.
Sweat gathered on Khirro’s brow, but not from exertion. Inside, he felt fire burn as the tyger struggled to break free. He fought it. No matter what voice spoke through her mouth, this was Elyea. He saw it in her eyes, he tasted it on her lips. He didn’t want to kill her, there had to be another way. Blow after blow he kept her steel from finding his flesh. Her skill was incredible. If they were to survive, he’d have to find a way other than by the sword.
“Why do you want to kill us? What did we do to you, Elyea?”
“I am Shariel now,” she said catching Athryn with a kick to his knee as he dodged her sword. He stumbled away. “You are responsible for all the sins against her. Don’t deny it.”
“What sins? What have I done?”
She gritted her teeth and swung hard, the impact vibrating the Mourning Sword right down to Khirro’s wounded hands.
“You raped her,” she said, striking to
emphasize her words. “You tortured her. You killed her.”
“No.” Khirro danced out of range of her attack. As good as she was, he held his own, a fact that left him surprised. “I love you, Elyea.”
“I am not Elyea,” she screamed and turned her attack on Athryn, driving him back. Fire raged in Khirro’s chest but he used all his will to suppress it.
There is another way.
He focused his thoughts on the Mourning Sword, taking his attention from the fire struggling to break free. A glow began to fill the room, dim at first but growing brighter. Panic blossomed in Khirro as he thought his inattention had allowed the flames free, but the light didn’t flicker like fire. He looked at the Mourning Sword, surprised and relieved he’d accomplished what he set out to do. The black blade and red runes disappeared, replaced by bright golden light. It attracted the woman’s attention and she forced Athryn back then turned to see the source at the same time the vision spread out in the room between them.
***
“I am not Elyea.”
I turn on the magician; he’s good with a sword, but not as good as me, or as the man called Khirro. If I dispose of Athryn first, I’ll be able to give my full attention to killing Khirro. Then he’ll shut up and stop telling me he loves me. He doesn’t love me, he never has. They are empty words he speaks in an attempt to make me spare his life. Only the woman in black loves me.
I hammer my sword against the magician’s again and again. He shuffles away, barely defending himself. I see a difference in him, but I’m unsure what it is. I don’t know this man, yet I have a sense his face is changed; it bore a scar once. It doesn’t matter, what matters is that he must die.
Another thrust, another blow and his sword falters, dips toward the floor. I raise my weapon to finish him when I notice the light. Has the man called Khirro burst into flames again? He’ll be more dangerous if he has, so I face him, leaving the magician’s death for now. Light fills the room, but it comes from his sword instead of his body. I don’t spend any time wondering about it. It’s the people in the room who garner my attention.
